


Nothing, But a Dead Scene.

by Futue_te_ipsi



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Hallucinations, M/M, Murder, Serial Killer, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2019-05-03 18:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14575182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Futue_te_ipsi/pseuds/Futue_te_ipsi
Summary: It was never Mikey’s dream to be a serial killer. He never meant it to happen, but there’s some kind of pull that he feels when he becomes the only person able to walk away. The internet says it’s a power complex, that serial killers are the kind of people that would torture animals in some kind of sadistic pleasure.That was never Mikey as a child, though. He was a good kid. He asked please, he said thank you, he washed his hands, he cleaned after himself. But then the world took his brother and the answer came to him in a darkened park as he walked home, in a grey gunmetal weight resting against his palm.





	Nothing, But a Dead Scene.

Mikey is ten when he first sees a dead body, up close. He holds Gerard’s thin hand, he looks at the veins. He’s there when the heart monitors flatline. He watches the nurses try to resuscitate Gerard, watches them record the time of death.

It’s the first time he sees someone he loves dead, but it’s not the last.

* * *

 Mikey is eleven the first time he kills someone. He’s walking across the park, and it’s dark even though it’s only 6 p.m, because that’s the midwest during winter. It’s cold and he’s tired of being alone and he’s almost home when something stops him. It’s a soft sound, like someone calling for help, from his left. He follows the sound until it leads him to a tree. Propped up against the trunk is a man—a boy—not much older than he. Mikey looks the boy in the eyes and doesn’t see any pain there, just a resignation. There’s a knife handle inside the boy's chest.

“Fucking rookie mistake,” the boy says ruefully. “They left the knife in and everything. Fuck.”

Mikey doesn’t move.

“I’m Tom,” he offers. He’s breathing shallowly, and all Mikey can see is the moon reflected in his eyes. His gray shirt sticks to his body.

Mikey stands there for long minutes. He knows what he’s supposed to do. He knows that he _should_ call the police, get help, do something. But he stands and looks down at the boy with the moon in his eyes and metal in his chest. He thinks he can hear Tom's lungs rattle against the knife.

“Can you do me a favor?” Tom asks. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a gun. He fumbles for a second with his hands, and Mikey just watches as he takes off one of his gloves. He attempts to hand the glove to Mikey, but he can’t hold it out far enough so his hand falls pathetically on his leg. “Fuck,” he says frustratedly.

Mikey reaches down and takes the glove, sliding it on his hand. “I want the other one, too,” he says.

Tom grins sharply. He fumbles the other glove off and tosses it up to him. “Good call,” he says, exhaling slowly, carefully.

Mikey doesn’t grin so much as bare his teeth, but Tom takes it as solidarity because a second later he’s gesturing at the gun. And Mikey’s not an idiot; he’s grown up here, in the slums, on the streets. He knows what guns do—he knows what Tom wants him to do—so he slides his fingers around the handle and weighs it in his hands.

* * *

 The next time, it’s an accident. He’s fifteen, and he’s drunk, and he’s driving Donna’s old car. All he hears is a thump, and then it’s dead quiet as he slams his brake pedal to the floor. It’s dark as he opens his car door, as he flinches when it shuts too loudly. He walks to the front of the car, drunken paranoia already setting in as he whips his head frantically over his shoulder, but there’s nothing there, nothing there, just night creatures making noise in the gutters. It feels like hours before he makes it to the front of the car, and then he spends hours looking at the girl splayed out on the road at his feet. She looks completely peaceful, with just a small drop of blood trickling from her left nostril.

“I’m sorry,” Mikey slurs drunkenly to her. He feels the need for it in the way that he didn’t for Tom. He feels none of the steady calmness he’d felt when he shattered Tom’s brain open, when he felt the heavy metal of Tom’s gun in his hoodie pocket. He looks up, searching for cameras, turning back to the girl when he finds none. He kneels beside her, careful not to let any part of himself actually touch her skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, this time with gravel cutting into his knees. His throat feels too tight, and he’s not sure if it’s guilt or just alcohol. He carefully tugs on her necklace until the clasp snaps open, and he’s left sitting on dusty gravel with a dead girl and gold necklace. It’s minutes later that he straightens, walks back to the car, and gets in.

* * *

 He meets Pete the same day that he kills for the third time. It’s not a mistake this time, not like last time, with the nameless girl splayed in front of his drunken pathway. It’s not even like it was with Tom, with the quiet assurance of moon-stretched irises looking into his. It’s dirty and he gets blood on his hand. It’s a knife to the back of his victim, metal cool and assured. It’s fumbled fingers in pockets, a wallet searched and seized.

“You look like hell,” the bartender says.

Mikey feels like hell. He’s twitchy. He can still feel blood on his hand; his fingers curl around a handle that isn’t there. He lifts his chin and smiles sardonically. “Thanks.”

The bartender laughs goodnaturedly. “No problem,” he says. He has tattoos curling around his arms and dark eyebags. “You okay?”

Mikey pays with the twenty he just killed for. “I’m on a rollercoaster that never goes up, my friend,” he says with a slight smirk, tapping his fingers against the countertop.

The bartender laughs and slides a glass over to Mikey. “My name’s Pete,” he says.

“Pete,” says Mikey, testing it out. “Hi, Pete.”

* * *

 It becomes a sort of ritual. Whenever he kills, he goes to the bar afterwards, talks to Pete, pays with blood money.

He learns things about Pete, learns that Pete just got out of a toxic relationship, that Pete wants to make it with music, doesn’t want to be bartending.

“But dreams die,” Pete says with a shrug. His eyes become vacant and he sighs before shrugging again. “That’s life.”

Mikey thinks about the man he’d just killed, the man who was homeless, who no one would miss. He remembers the fear in the man’s eyes, the regret. And he hates himself for having the audacity to feel sorry for Pete.

“I gotta situation,” he tells Pete on his sixth visit. Not that he’s counting. “I need a place to crash for a few months.”

Pete grins, feral and sharp. That’s what Mikey likes about him, the sharp edges, the coiled tension he can see in Pete’s body. Mikey thinks about running a knife down Pete’s neck, thinks about how he would look, how his nerves would jump.

“I can pay,” Mikey says, belatedly. “I can chip in rent.”

Pete waves a hand. “That would be helpful.” He fills a glass and shoves it across the counter to an overweight and balding man. “Stick around, wait awhile. I get off at midnight, you can come with me and check out the place.”

Mikey nods, already zoning away from the conversation, eyes scanning the room. He watches the smiles of strangers, the dance of society, watches fingers crawl around wrists. He listens, feels, hears. He sits perfectly still, perfectly silent. He waits.

Pete leans down and tugs on a sweater before slipping out from behind the bar. He stands in front of Mikey and smiles softly. “It’s not far,” he says, drumming his fingers on his thigh.

Mikey nods and stands up, drinking the last of his beer. He follows Pete as he exits, eyes darting back and forth from stranger to stranger.

Pete leads him to the back of the building and up a rusted staircase. He fumbles with his keys for a second before letting them both in. “It’s not much,” he says, stepping aside for Mikey. “But it is a place to stay, and it’s close to work.” He grins a little.

Mikey looks around appraisingly. It’s small, and dark, but it’s a place to stay, like Pete said. He nods in approval.

“I think if we split the rent, it’ll come out to around 200 a month,” Pete continues. “Honestly, man, as long as this works, I’m cool with you staying around more permanently. I’ve been looking for a roommate.”

Mikey grins. “Sounds good,” he says, ducking his head as he smiles at Pete.

“Okay,” Pete says, and he’s smiling back at Mikey, eyes shining with life. He bounces from foot to foot. “Do you want help moving in? When can you move in?”

“No,” Mikey answers, a little too quickly, he thinks. He grits his teeth and tries again. “I’m good,” he says.

Pete doesn’t question it, just goes into the small kitchen off the living room. He fills a glass of water and lifts it towards Mikey.

Mikey declines the water with a shake of his head. “I need to go,” he says lamely. “Pack and stuff.”

Pete nods, sipping the water. “See you tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yeah, tomorrow,” Mikey says vacantly.

* * *

 And it’s easy, living with Pete. So easy that Mikey learns to relax when he’s home. Pete is good about telling Mikey when he’ll be out, and he doesn’t ask any questions after he learns that Mikey won’t answer them. Mikey allows himself to trust Pete and starts leaving his stuff out in his room. He gets a lock fitted for his room, though, because he can never be too careful.

He hasn’t stopped killing, nor has he stopped visiting the bar. He sits across from Pete for the few minutes it takes to down a glass of beer, maybe have some conversation, and then he’s walking up the stairs to his room where he can rest.

It’s not the life he’d imagined, not what he thought this would all be like, but there’s something to it. A rush of adrenaline when he feels a pulse falter, a reminder that his heart is still beating, still pumping; he’s still breathing.

Pete usually gets back from work late, around 1 or 2 in the morning, but sometimes Mikey is still up and he goes out to say hello. They sit on the sofa together, eating junk and watching trash into the early hours where no one else is alive. Mikey feels scarily relaxed in these hours, feels like if Pete just pushes at the wrong doors everything will come spilling out and Mikey doesn’t know what he’ll have to do then.

Pete shifts beside Mikey, pressing the line of his body against Mikey’s, leaning into him. He reaches into Mikey’s lap and grabs some of the popcorn, crunching it noisily against Mikey’s shoulder.

“Tell me something, Mikeyway,” Pete says sleepily.

Mikey looks down at Pete, watches the way his eyes look up into Mikey’s, watches his lips move. “I...” Mikey says, trailing off. He watches Pete’s eyes darken, and he knows what’s coming even before it happens.

Pete leans up, slowly, perhaps the most slow that Mikey’s ever seen him, and presses his lips to Mikey’s. Mikey doesn’t move for a second, just lets Pete do the work before pressing back, following Pete’s mouth with his own. They kiss for long seconds like that, just lips moving together quietly on the couch before Pete pulls away. His cheeks are reddened, just slightly, and Mikey runs a finger across them before setting down the popcorn and tugging at Pete’s wrist until Pete has a leg on each side of Mikey’s lap. Pete leans down and kisses Mikey again, forcing his tongue in Mikey’s mouth and running it over Mikey’s teeth.

Mikey pulls back, pushing Pete’s shirt up his chest until Pete gets the hint and takes it off. Pete settles back down, kissing Mikey thoroughly. Mikey traces his fingers down the lines of Pete’s tattoos as he kisses back, pulling Pete’s lip into his mouth and rolling it with his tongue.

Pete pulls Mikey’s shirt off, too, and nudges his fingers in the crevasses between Mikey’s ribs. His fingers travel down until they’re undoing Mikey’s pants and pushing at them. Mikey pushes up against Pete’s fingers and lets him do what he wants.

* * *

 It was never Mikey’s dream to be a serial killer. He never meant it to happen, but there’s some kind of pull that he feels when he becomes the only person able to walk away. The internet says it’s a power complex, that serial killers are the kind of people that would torture animals in some kind of sadistic pleasure.

That was never Mikey as a child, though. He was a good kid. He asked _please,_ he said _thank you_ , he washed his hands, he cleaned after himself. But then the world took his brother and then the answer came to him in a darkened park as he walked home, in a grey gunmetal weight resting against his palm.

He collects the trinkets he steals from his victims. He’s careful about it, careful to dispose of all evidence, to buy clothes second-hand, careful to travel far enough away so the murders aren’t pinpointed to his location.

And it’s Belleville, New Jersey. The police aren’t worried about someone who’s systematically offing the homeless. Hell, they’d probably give Mikey an award for it. He’s not killing anyone special, not killing anyone who counts.

He may be a murderer, but he’s not stupid.

* * *

"Do you think it's fair?" Pete's lying spreadeagled on the floor, eyes red and unfocused. His fingers twitch sporadically.

Mikey leans back against the couch. He waits.

"It's just," Pete sighs. He rolls over and grabs a cigarette off the coffee table, lights it, and inhales. "Ah, fuck," he says. "It's just, nothing matters."

Mikey watches smoke curl out from Pete's mouth. "Those'll kill you, you know," he says softly. He feels flesh under his fingers and haunted eyes in his head. He doesn't feel his face or his legs; just a singular mind floating in space.

"That's the point!" Pete says angrily. "That's the goddamn point." He laughs, long and harsh before choking and going quiet. His breaths begin to heave.

"That's the point, huh?" Mikey parrots. "Nothing matters. Fuckin, Metallica, man."

Pete's rolled over onto his elbows, forehead resting on the floor. "Fuck you," he says. "I'm serious." He takes another drag on his cigarette, lifting his head and resting his chin in his hand. "I don't think I like this, anymore."

"This?" Mikey asks, frozen and careful; forcefully casual.

"Living," Pete says. "Goddamn, living."

And Mikey thinks, voices: _please don't kill me; please let me live; please don't do this; why; why are you doing this; oh god; not me; not now; not like this:_ he thinks of the last words of his victims, fast tracked through his head, a circle of frenetic want to stay alive. He thinks about Pete, pressing his head on the floor and squeezing his eyes shut, so goddamn dead inside, and wonders what's stopping him from shoving a knife into Pete's back and ending it.

* * *

 Pete presses Mikey against the counter when he walks into the apartment, presses him against the counter and kisses him so sweetly and gently that Mikey doesn’t really know what to do other than to hold on, to tilt his head so he can press back against Pete’s mouth. For a second, it’s just them, just them leaning against the counter, talking to each other in a language only they understand.

Pete leans his head against Mikey’s and breathes heavily, his entire body heaving. “Fuck me,” he says, his voice low and level.

So Mikey does.

* * *

Mikey showers in the dark, at night, with the lights off. He washes himself without looking. He's not looking, but he can see the blood on his hands, feel it as it crawls down his cheek from where he smudged it taking his shirt off. He feels the bags under his eyes, an unrepentant itch under his skin. He washes away color; he showers in the dark. 

* * *

 Mikey pushes a fold of one's and five's into his pocket, fingers trembling. He knows that this isn't being careful anymore; this is being stupid. He feels ethereal, like he could just fade away in a second, with no one but Pete to notice he's gone. On the walk home, he can't stop walking to the beat of heart monitors in his head. He can't help but stop for a second when it flatlines, can't help but breathe in a breath of hospital-stale air. Gerard's hand is in his, he can feel the ghost of thin fingers wrapped around his, pushed deep into his pocket so no one can see.

It's been fifteen years, and he can still hear the high pitched monitors, still hear the ringing silence after the nurse shut it off.

All it takes is a line of coke off the toilet of a gas station to make his mind go quiet. He rests his head against cool porcelain for a second, breathing slowly, before leaning back against the wall. He looks at the ceiling and thinks, _nothing_. It's good like this, shaky hands and still mind.

He walks home in a daze, following his feet more than anything else.

And then he's angry. All he can see is red. Pete's seen it before, the anger, the rage that stays just beneath Mikey's surface but he still seems surprised to have it turned on him. Mikey punches his neck, pushes at Pete until Pete can't push back anymore. Mikey grips his hands into fists. He breathes at Pete, satisfied when he sees Pete's chest breathe back at him.

He walks away.

_He's sure of it._

So he goes outside and stays out, cradling the dead in his murderous hands.

* * *

 He takes a few more lines, but it still surprises him when hallucinations come. He’s under a bridge, and the traffic’s slowed; it’s deep into the early hours. He sees Tom, the First Victim, standing across the road, sees him smile even as his face shatters. He watches blood drip into Tom’s mouth as he beckons Mikey across the pavement. And suddenly, they’re all there. Mikey didn’t know he’d remembered them all, doesn’t know for certain that they are _all_ there. They don’t seem to feel any of the unrest he feels, just call to him quietly.

“Mikey,” they call, and he can’t help it. He steps forward.

“C’mon, Mikes,” it’s Pete, standing at the forefront of the group, a neat bullet hole in his forehead. A line of blood starts to drip down his face. It curves around his nose. “Mikeyway,” Pete says, his voice steady.

Mikey shakes, his steps faltering. Headlights.

Metal falls into his pocket, and he grasps wildly at it, wet fingers slipping on leather. A hand wraps around his. Mikey looks down, sees nothing but smudges of blood where his wrists end; hands made of death. He’s made of smoke and mirrors.

A bloody handprint is on Pete’s neck. Pete licks at the blood when it dribbles over the top of his lip. He lines his lips red with his tongue, letting blood slowly ooze up from his mouth and over his chin.

Mikey's frozen. He's made of ice and concrete, bottles and bad dreams; worthless, sadistic, sinister. 

Headlights.

Pete’s eyes, pupils dilated in euphoria even as blood covers his chin.

Mikey steps onto concrete. Headlights.

"Love you, Mikes," Pete says, words garbled. "So good to me, always was."

Another step, faltering, shaking.

Burnt rubber.

_Headlights._

 

 


End file.
